


The Kisses of Francesco de' Pazzi

by orphan_account



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Closure, F/M, M/M, nothing major, this was another draft, uh mild sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Francesco's first kiss tastes like cigarettes and vodka.
Relationships: Bianca di Piero de' Medici/Guglielmo de' Pazzi, Francesco de' Pazzi & Guglielmo de' Pazzi, Giuliano de' Medici & Francesco de' Pazzi, Giuliano de' Medici/Francesco de' Pazzi, Novella Foscari/Francesco de' Pazzi
Kudos: 9





	The Kisses of Francesco de' Pazzi

**Author's Note:**

> Another shit quickly-finished draft I'm glad to get rid of lol

Francesco's first kiss tastes like cigarettes and vodka.

It's unexpected, the way it sets a spark to his blood until it's burning under his skin. Red hot and molten, it sends his head spinning as he bites his companion's lower lip, licking into their mouth. 

It isn't a fight for dominance between them, despite the fact that it's Medici and Pazzi and everything they _do_ is a fight for dominance. It's more of a dance, a mutual surrender, and, perhaps most surprising of all, is the way Giuliano lets him, oddly silent.

Giuliano lets him guide the kisst, lets him spin them until Giuliano is the one being pressed into the wall, until he tilts his head up just so, and Francesco's knees go weak because it deepens the kiss until it's filthy, messy. Disgusting, but oh so lovely.

Francesco's hands are tight in Giuliano's hair, and it's got to hurt, it must, but Giuliano voices no complaint, so Francesco doesn't move them, only tightens his grip to tilt his head where he wants it, delves his tongue in deeper until he's plundering his mouth, taking everything he wants with an uncharacteristic greed. 

And Giuliano gives it.

His hands are light, gentle, and blisteringly warm as they move across his skin under his shirt. One moves to cup his face, thumb stroking below his eye with a tenderness Francesco didn't even know Giuliano was capable of.

He's malleable in Francesco's hold, allowing himself to be moved and seized. It makes something hot, something bold grow in Francesco's gut. His hand crawls up Giuliano’s chest, higher and higher until his palm’s on his throat, thumb digging in at the soft, delicate hinge of his jaw, without him even realising.

Giuliano’s tenderness is something foreign to Francesco. Nobody had been _tender_ to him since his mother last tucked him into bed and stroked his forehead all those years ago. It's a tenderness and understanding that makes him snarl because what the _fuck_ isGiuliano playing at.

But then Giuliano's hands move to cup his ass and they _pull_ , pulling his hips against Giuliano's, sending sparks shooting through his veins, sending him gasping, mind spiralling. 

And Francesco eases.

He eases because something's settling in him, smoothing out, something that was cut jagged by his parents death and his uncle's distance. 

Who knew all Francesco wanted was a bit of tenderness in his life. A gentle touch. 

Giuliano, it would seem.

Giuliano whose hands were rucking up his shirt and tracing along his abdomen, lips open and panting against Francesco's mouth. 

Francesco let him, dipped his head to bite and mouth at the crease of Giuliano's jaw- infuriatingly sharp and biteable- almost grinning at the way it spurred Giuliano on, made him moan. 

His skin is warm on his tongue. Salty, and tainted slightly by the bitterness of smoke. He couldn't get enough, and the bruises he was forming were only a bonus.

But they were dangerously close to discovery, a fact Francesco's scrambled mind only remembered when voices drifted over to them, and footsteps that only got louder.

People were coming, and they were going to be seen.

Giuliano either didn't realise, or didn't care, because his hands were still gripping Francesco, and his head was tipped back against the wall, chest heaving in the dim light of the streetlights.

Francesco couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the sight that he made, all swollen lips and desperate eyes, Francesco’s marks staining his skin like fucking wine. He’s shaking as he steps back, wiping at his mouth and tugging at his shirt.

Giuliano's hands fall limp at his sides. His face carefully neutral as his breathing slowly evens out, the only sign of what they'd been up to his swollen lips and ruffled hair. 

He pushes off the wall, but Francesco pushes him back, an ugly sneer on his lips. "Get the fuck away from me."

It was easy to blame Giuliano. He had been the one to initiate the kiss, he had been the one with the secret smiles and gentle, lingering touches all the damn time. 

He was the Medici.

Giuliano smiles, but his eyes are dull; there is a familiar darkness lingering in them, a bitter self-hatred that Francesco sees whenever he summons enough courage to look in a mirror. "You weren't saying that when you had your tongue down my throat," he taunts, licking his lips mockingly. Francesco snarls, blood burning with sudden fury. "You weren't saying that when you were moaning my name."

Francesco snaps. 

The punch is true; he can feel the crunch of Giuliano's nose under his fist as it breaks, sickening and loud in the darkness of the evening. He can feel the slipperiness of the blood as it paints his knuckles, Giuliano’s blood marking him as he had marked Giuliano with his teeth. Giuliano stumbles backwards with a yelp, holding a hand to his nose, coughing as blood, thick and coppery, coats the back of his throat.

The lovebite Francesco had bitten on Giuliano's skin mocks him.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" He breathes, watching as Giuliano pulls himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall.

His smile is a baring of teeth covered with blood. "You're the one that punched me."

"Fuck off, Medici."

Giuliano's smile is tight. Sharp. "Whatever you say, _Pazzi_."

And that is how Francesco’s first kiss ends; in bitterness and blood.

  
  
  


-

  
  


They don't talk about it. Not when he sees Giuliano with two black eyes and a lump on his nose the next day, not when Lorenzo frowns at his knuckles, red and angry from throwing a single punch that Giuliano didn't even return.

Not even when guilt twists his stomach and strikes his heart.

He can’t bring himself to look Giuliano in the eyes.

It festers in him, that kiss, brands itself in his brain until he can feel Giuliano's phantom touch. His skin itches with it, sometimes. He feels cold, like Giuliano's hands, phantom as they are, are the only source of warmth on his skin. Warm showers are a poor substitute for that searing heat. The closeness.

Sometimes he dreams of it, the gentle, easy touch that he hungers for. He can still remember the way it sunk through his skin, fluid and burning, and wrapped itself around his bones.

Sometimes he thinks it would be worth kissing Giuliano again, just to feel it again. 

But then he sees Giuliano, slowly sinking into a darkness while he pretends to float above life; nobody else notices that he’s sinking, lost and alone.

Francesco turns away, the kiss lingering in his mind.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, he shouldn’t care as much as he does, but he does, no matter how much he wishes he didn’t.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


The taste of Giuliano’s mouth haunts him. It's weak, a faded memory when he has his second kiss with Novella. Novella who tastes like strawberries and summer, like life and joy, everything Francesco hungers for. 

It’s weak, but there, lingering in Novella’s mouth. She confesses, shy, that she had a single cigarette to calm her nerves, and Francesco wants to scream because it tastes like the same cigarettes Giuliano once enjoyed. Once tasted of.

Perhaps he enjoys them still. Francesco wouldn’t know because he’s a coward, and it’s far easier to cut out the aching, tender part of his heart Giuliano claimed than it is to admit its existence.

Novella couldn’t be more of an opposite to Giuliano, and yet so similar. Novella tastes like summer and joy where Giuliano had tasted like night; dark and bitter. Kissing him had been a thrill, had set his blood alight and heart racing, but kissing Novella is a peaceful affair. It’s soft and gentle and _right_. 

But kissing Giuliano had also _right_ , and he had also tasted of _life_. Kissing him had been the thrill of living; adrenaline and youth. 

But Novella tastes sweet, and her hands are smaller. More delicate. They card through his hair, tender and loving, and that more than anything is what sends his heart racing in his chest. It echoes of Giuliano, and it places conflict in his heart. Conflict because the memory of Giuliano both hurts and soothes, both angers and exhiliarates, and the tenderness of both kisses makes him want to anger and weep. 

Novella smiles, soft and sweet, when they break apart. 

She can taste the rot on his tongue, the evil in his cheek, he fears suddenly, heart gripped with panic and blood running cold. 

But her eyes don’t reveal disgust. 

All they show is affection and lust. “You taste like mint,” she laughs, resting her forehead against his. 

He had been nervous, chewing on mints in anticipation of this kiss. 

He smiles wryly, hiding his tumultuous emotions. There are worse things that one could taste of. _I could taste like hate and fury. I could taste like regret, bitter and sharp enough to cut your tongue_.

I could taste like a memory that never leaves.

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


His third and fourth kisses are with Novella, and they taste a little more of _Novella_ and a little less of _Giuliano_ each time. She soothes his mind, stands by his side, steadfast and immovable. It’s that loyalty that breaks him. Makes him cave to her.

She is the one by his side when Jacopo is at his worst. She is the one that helps him gather the courage to finally walk away from Jacopo; away from his hatred and his manipulations. Away from his bitter heart that leaks into those close to him, tainting them and blackening their minds. 

Francesco was done with being tainted. With Jacopo he felt filthy, dripping with it. With Novella he feels pure.

He leaves all of his bitter, rancid hatred behind with Jacopo, a dark, ugly stain on his past that he’d rather forget because with Novella his future looks bright. And, for once, it doesn’t scare him.

  
  
  


-

  
  


Bianca and Guglielmo, to the surprise of everyone, are married that summer. 

Francesco spares a passing thought for Jacopo, for the anger that must be burning through him like the hottest of volcanoes, but it’s fleeting. He can’t focus on anger when he can only see joy before him; joy in his brother’s eyes as he says ‘I do’. Joy as he laughs, spinning Bianca around as they take their first dance, dressed simply but looking all the more beautiful for it. 

Joy in Bianca’s smile and Lucrezia’s watery eyes. In Lorenzo’s satisfied smile, in the proud jut of Giuliano’s chin. 

This is a day of joy, of _union_ , and that is what prompts him to take the first step. 

“Lorenzo.” 

Lorenzo tears his eyes away from his sister, smiling. “Francesco.” Such warmth; it used to irk him, but now he finds it comforting. 

“It would seem that we are family, now.”

Giuliano, never far from his brother’s side, swaggers over with a charming quirk of his lips. “Much to your dismay, I’m sure.”

Francesco laughs, despite himself. 

“I hear,” Giuliano adds, face carefully neutral, “That we might expect another Pazzi wedding soon.”

“Mine?”

He dips his head in a nod. “Yours,” he agrees. “To- Novella, isn’t it? Foscari.”

“Yes,” Francesco confirms, thrown. “But- marriage?” He’d never considered it, really. Neither he nor Novella were the type to need such obvious vows to know what they were. "We haven't discussed it." He knew he sounded somewhat panicked, because Giuliano's lips quirk, sad and regretful, before he schools his face into something carefully neutral.

"Better enjoy your last days of freedom," Lorenzo laughs. "She'll make an honest man out of you, whether you want it or not."

To Lorenzo, marriage was inevitable. He was a man _made_ for marriage, had been groomed for it his entire life, but Francesco and Giuliano were different. They had known confinement and cages; they celebrated freedom, and to them marriage was the opposite. The very idea of it was an entrapment that felt like thorns digging into Francesco's skin.

Entering a marriage would feel to much of an acceptance of the life his uncle planned for him; his whole life he had chipped away at him, mutilated him to force him into the man he wanted Francesco to be- a man shaped after Jacopo himself, and getting married and taking over the bank had been a fundamental part of that. So fundamental that he couldn't separate the two of them.

"Well, brother, perhaps you should worry more about your _own_ wife and less about Francesco's."

Lorenzo waved a hand, pulling Francesco into a swift hug. "It's good to see you again, Francesco," he murmurs into his ear, soft and intimate, before straightening, smiling good naturedly as he ambles off towards his wife.

Francesco feels a shiver crawl up his spine as Giuliano sidles closer to him, placing his empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter. 

He licks his lips, a nervous gesture Francesco is surprisingly relieved to see. At least he isn’t the only one feeling off-balance.

"And what about you, Giuliano?" He asks when it becomes clear that Giuliano won't be the one to break the silence. "Should I expect an invitation to _your_ wedding soon?"

Giuliano barks out a laugh, shaking his head almost wondrously. "I- no, of course you don't know." Something happens to his face, then, something around the eyes that makes him look ten years older and exhausted. Weary. 

Giuliano, who was youth and excitement, who tasted of _life_ and exhilaration; when did he lose that?

"Then tell me."

The bastard just _smiles_ , hiding behind a fucking mask again. "You know me," he shrugs, carelessly. "What I'm like. What more do you need to know?"

_Whatever it is that you're hiding from_ , Francesco things, but he holds his tongue. 

"Dance with me," he demands suddenly, leaving Francesco unsure if he heard him right. 

"Wha-"

But Giuliano's got a hand, just warm and soft as he remembered, around his wrist and is already tugging him onto the dance floor, pulling him against his body until they're stood chest-to-chest, noses almost brushing, more swaying than dancing.

Francesco knows that if he were to give in, if he were to press their lips together, he wouldn’t taste the same. 

He has changed, irrevocably and fundamentally. 

“This feels like a goodbye,” he says instead.

Guiliano nods, once. “It is.”

Francesco feels horrid all of a sudden, cold all over. “I thought weddings were meant to be an opportunity for new beginnings,” he manages.

“I’m not your enemy, Francesco, not anymore. But neither am I your lover.” His fingers flex on Francesco’s hip. “This, this is a fresh start.” He brushes a kiss to his cheek, with a tenderness that makes Francesco’s throat constrict. “To our new family. It’s a goodbye to the ugly past we’ve been haunted by.”

Jealousy and hatred tarnishing innocence and potential. Two people too scared to look at each other and see themselves.

Francesco swallows, stepping away as the song ends. “We’re family, now, Francesco. The past should stay precisely that.”

Francesco smiles. “Then, to new beginnings.”

It is bittersweet, but when Novella catches his eye with a smile, sweet and warm, it feels right. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello insecurities, damn


End file.
